Miss Fontenot

Miss

Fontenot

Stephen Bly

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Miss Fontenot

Copyright © 1999, 2020 by Janet Chester Bly

Smashwords Edition

Cover design: Cindy Kiple

Cover illustration: Dan Brown

Dedication

for

Kay Olsen

"And as we have borne the image of the earthy,

we shall also bear the image of the heavenly."

1 Corinthians 15:49 (KJV)

~Chapter One~

OLIOLE FONTENOT slumped against a large granite boulder and waited for the sun to move.

It was Montana-August hot.

Humid.

The morning’s brief thunderstorm settled the red dust, washed the cottonwood leaves, and refreshed the buildings. But it left a sticky feeling in the air.

Long blonde hair braided and wrapped at the back of Oliole’s head, but as always a few strands rebelled across her smooth, pale forehead. Round jade earrings held the heat of the sun against her already warm earlobes. The high collar of her long-sleeved white cotton blouse was drenched with perspiration. She repeatedly wiped her damp palms on the pansy-embroidered tea towel stretched across her long, straight dark green denim skirt. Tall brown leather riding boots radiated with heat like a wood-stove in winter.

Oliole shaded her eyes with her hand to study the panorama below her.

The town of Cantrell stretched across the mountainside. The shadow from the cupola distorted the roofline of the hotel. She wanted the stagecoach in front of the hotel, the flag unfurled at the post office . . . and a slight reflection off the Yellowstone River in the background.

Lord, outdoor photography is very difficult when I’m not allowed to rearrange the subjects.

Oliole stepped up to the 17-X-19-inch wet-collodion-plate black bellows camera that faced the town. She stuck her head under the black canvas curtain, swung the camera on its heavy hickory tripod a little to the west, then pulled out, and meandered back to the boulder.

And waited for the sun to move.

William H. Jackson told her he could unpack, take a panorama photo, make the print, and repack in fifteen minutes. She supposed he didn’t have to wait for the sun to be in the right position. Perhaps all photographs should be taken on cloudy days.

She walked back up the hill fifty feet to the front porch of her studio/home. The green-lettered sign on the roof declared: THE IMAGE SHOP: Miss Oliole Fontenot, Photographer.

You are a long way from New York City! Amazing the galleries can survive without you.

Survive? They wouldn’t show her work when she was there, and they certainly didn’t miss her.

She glanced up at the rugged, empty mountains behind her shop.

And I’m certainly gone!

The glass and wood top half of the Dutch front door already open, she swung the bottom half. She entered the 15-X-30-foot wood-frame building with covered front porch. The window-filled front room combined as office, gallery, and sitting room. A thick black canvas draped across the doorway led to the back half of the building, which served as darkroom, bedroom, and kitchen.

For the fourth time in the last half hour, she examined the glass plates—the syrupy concoction of guncotton, alcohol, and ether—and the silver nitrate. Stashing them all in a tight oak box, she left the front door open and packed the supplies down to the camera.

She plunked them down in front of her so her shadow provided shade. Then she reached over and snatched the towel from the boulder and wiped her forehead, neck, and hands.

After I get this photograph, I should go for a swim in the river.

But she wouldn’t. Not proper. And Oliole was proper. Mama and Daddy saw to that. Of course, Daddy always thought she should be a schoolteacher. He still thought so. Mama wanted her to be a seamstress—like her. The only thing they ever agreed on about her future was that she should not become a photographer.

So, how did she get way out here?

The Lord only knows.

Oliole stuck her head under the canvas curtain draped at the rear of the heavy, bulky camera. She soon popped back out.

The sun moved!

The cupola looked perfect.

The river started to glisten.

Where was the stage?

It’s about time.

She glanced at the gold watch dangling from an intricate chain around her neck.

She’d been waiting for just this picture. If not now, when? By tomorrow the dust would hang in the air again like a cheap lens filter. The contrasts lost. And in black and white, contrast was everything.

Stagecoach or not, this was it.

With the adeptness of years of practice, Oliole dipped the big glass plate into the collodion solution. While still wet and in the darkness of her black canvas-covered box, she dipped it into the silver nitrate.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the Billings stagecoach rolling up Main Street far below her. She ducked under the canvas, shoved the plate into the camera, flipped open the shutter, and began to count.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

But instead of Boomtown at Noon, four horsemen romped into the foreground.

She jerked her head out from the canvas and screamed, No!

The gray horse reared. The black one backed down the hill. The brown one pranced. The pinto snorted. And four men stared at her.

Were you takin’ a photograph? spouted the man with the drooping red mustache.

No, I was knitting mittens for morons. She shook a clenched fist. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for that shot?

But there weren’t nobody in the picture. We figured you were just waitin’ for someone to ride up, the one wearing the narrow-brimmed bowler replied.

Oliole stormed straight at the men. A person can take an image without having anyone in the scene.

The largest of the four chewed on an unlit cigar and tilted his head. Why on earth would you want to do that?

For artistic value, she fumed.

I reckon that there Art can buy whatever he wants. So, we’ll just back out of your way, sweet darlin’, and wait our turn, the black-haired one suggested.

All four rode their horses to the big boulder, halted, and continued to stare at her.

She put her hands on her hips and sighed. Photography would be a wonderful profession if she didn’t have to make a living.

The stagecoach rolled away from The Marquesa Hotel, the reflection on the Yellowstone River dimmed, and once again the edges of the cupola looked fuzzy at a distance.

She folded her arms across her thin chest. I presume you are cash customers?

You take gold, don’t you? The heavy one sprayed tobacco juice with each word.

Yes, but you’ll have to wait right there. I’ve got to take care of this negative you so carelessly ruined before the plate dries. She started toward the shop, then spun back. And I do mean, wait right there, she demanded. Don’t get off those horses, and don’t touch any of my equipment. Understand?

Yes, ma’am.

Good.

The oversized negative revealed four startled horsemen in the foreground of the frame on blurred horses with the outskirts of Cantrell around the edges in the background.

I don’t believe this, she sputtered. I’ve waited all summer for the air to clear, the sun in the right position, the buildings clean . . . This is like a horrible joke. I am not amused.

She left the negative in the darkroom and traipsed down the hill where the men waited, still mounted on their horses.

What are you toting that shotgun for? asked the one with unkempt black hair curling out from a floppy wide-brimmed hat.

Because I thought about killing all of you for ruining my por-trait of the town.

You’re joking, right? Red Mustache piped up. I mean, a town’s a town. Ain’t nobody who really wants to pay a cash dollar for a photograph of a town.

Yeah, and besides the town won’t change, Bowler Hat added. You can take its picture any old time. It ain’t ever’ day that you get to photograph four handsome and famous men like us.

Oliole took a good look at the men. Gray wool suits, black vests, white shirts, dark ties, and overcoats of red road dust.

Slinging the shotgun over her shoulder, she shaded her eyes. I presume you wanted a group photograph?

Yep. The black-haired one pointed to the sign above the shop. Are you this here Orialley Fountnet?

O-lee-o-lay Fon-tuh-no. With emphasis on the no.

Well, the handbill down at the Hair of the Dog Saloon was right, Black Hair continued.

How’s that? she asked.

It said we could get a ‘photograph taken by a real live woman!’ That you are, ma’am, that you are. His attempt to leer came across as a foolish grin.

I can see you have a discriminating eye.

I do? His mouth dropped open. Maybe you could take a picture of the other side, so it won’t show.

Did she really work ten-hour shifts at the dress factory and study late nights for this?

Gentlemen, tie your horses at the hitching rail by my shop. There’s a pan of water on the front porch if you want to wash your faces. Then hurry back down here. I’ll get the camera set up.

Out here? the bowler-topped rider protested.

Yes.

But we wanted one of them pictures with the backdrop, Mr. Tobacco Juice spewed.

Oh? Did you want to pose with pick, shovel, and a bucket of huge phony gold nuggets, so you could impress the folks back in the States? she challenged.

Shoot no, sweet darlin’. We already got our gold to pose next to, Black Hair announced.

Well, Pansy, bring it down with you, and we’ll set it in the middle.

My name ain’t Pansy. It’s Sam Black. And this here’s my gang.

And mine is not ‘sweet darlin’. It’s Miss Fontenot. If you will call me by my name, I’ll be happy to call you by yours.

Red Mustache seemed eager to end the confrontation. Miss Fontenot, are we really going to pose outside?

Yes. Photography is meant to capture the moment—not deceive the viewer. That’s why I won’t use scenic backdrops. The real thing is always better. And bring that bench off the porch with you when you come.

She had the camera adjusted for portraits as the four straggled down the hill, each carrying a crammed-full heavy bank sack over the shoulder. Two of them also toted the wooden bench.

Oliole propped her shotgun against the wooden box next to her camera.

Set the bench in the clearing in front of the camera. Then place the sacks of gold in the middle of the bench. She waved her hands at them. Two of you stand at the ends and two stand directly behind. It’s kind of hard to position you when I don’t know the rest of your names.

Call me, eh . . . Mr. Brown, the one in the bowler announced.

And I’ll be Mr. White, the big man with the partially devoured cigar proclaimed.

Then I presume you’re Red? She pointed to the partner with the drooping red mustache.

Yep, that’s me. How did you know? We ain’t met somewheres, have we?

I’m positive I’ve never met any of you, she said.

Well, I could make up for that in a hurry, Black said.

She ignored him and surveyed the others. Well, boys, I could care less what your real names are. But I do want to give you a good quality photograph. Mr. White, stick the cigar in your pocket. You and Black slide in toward the sacks of gold. Push your hats to the back of your heads, so I can see your charming eyes.

Both men quickly obeyed.

Now, Red and Mr. Brown, step up next to the bench and take off your hats. Bend your arms and hold them directly in front of your belts.

When the shorter one pulled off his hat, his red hair sprayed in all directions.

Red, that absolutely will not work, she complained.

Ain’t that hair of mine somethin’? Would you believe I ain’t had my hat off for a week?

A week? Maybe a year!

Red, put your hat back on and trade places with Mr. White. Mr. White, pull your hat off and hold it in your hand.

White’s highly greased sandy-blond hair parted in the middle.

Good, that’s much better.

I don’t know where they got the bank sacks, but it’s a cinch these four don’t have the mining savvy to pull that much gold out of the ground.

Now, practice your serious poses, men. I don’t want you with foolish grins.

She’s right, boys, Sam Black put in. This here is a historic picture. Why, a hundred years from now, they’ll still be talking about it.

All four men, frozen in place, began to laugh.

I believe they have a slightly inflated idea of their importance.

She peeked under the black canvas and then pulled back out. Mr. Black, is that your most serious pose? You’re grinning like a donkey with a hunk of sugar cane.

When he’s around beautiful women, he usually goes plum crazy, Mr. White explained. "It’s a miracle he ain’t pinched your derriere or tried to kiss you on the lips."

Oliole patted the shotgun. Boys, a camera is not the only instrument I’m accomplished at shooting.

Yes, ma’am, White responded. I was jist explainin’ why Black is always grinning around you.

Brown chuckled. Blackie thinks he’s quite the ladies’ man.

It’s true, boys, and you know it, Black insisted. He turned toward Oliole. No offense intended, darlin’.

Well, I am offended. I’m not at all sure I want your business.

You mean you’d turn down twenty cash dollars? Mr. Brown said.

Twenty dollars?

We was plannin’ on givin’ you a bonus, Black informed her.

I haven’t seen any money.

Sam Black opened a canvas bank sack and pulled out a double eagle. He held it high in the air between two grimy fingers. Now you’ve seen it!

In that case, if you can control yourselves, we will proceed.

Four sacks of twenty-dollar gold pieces?

They didn’t dig that out of the ground at Devil’s Canyon.

Watch yourself, Oliole. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to build my shop this far above town.

Sam Black spat out a stream of tobacco juice. See, Red, I told ya women always change their tune when they see the money, no matter how uppity they act.

I can’t believe I put up with this!

This is not what I studied years to do.

But twenty dollars will buy a lot of supplies.

Take the photo. Collect the money. Send them on their way.

Hold very still until I count to thirty. Absolutely do not move, she shouted. One . . . two . . . three . . .

She closed the lens at the count of five.

Forgive me, Lord, but I enjoy the power of freezing four men for twenty-five seconds more.

. . . twenty-nine . . . thirty. That’s it, boys. Now mount up, go buy yourself some dinner, and come back to pick up your photograph this evening.

We’ll jist wait, Black announced.

Not here you won’t. I will sell you a very good photograph, but I do not have to entertain you. I need to get this negative into my darkroom before it dries in the heat. How many copies did you want?

Five, Mr. Brown declared. One for each of us and one for the bank in Cheyenne.

The bank?

He meant the folks back home in Wyoming. His pappy is, eh, connected with a bank, Mr. White explained.

Fine. I’ll have five photographs printed for you. They should dry quickly on a day like this. I’ll need half the payment now and the other half when you pick up the photographs.

Shoot, you kin have it all now, Miss O-lee-o-lay. Black tossed a gold coin off the bottom of her skirt. It fell to the dirt between her boots. She stared down at the coin.

Sorry about that throw, Black chuckled. I’ll be happy to come over there and pick it up for you.

I bet you would. She kept her knees together and swooped down to retrieve the coin. If you’ll mount up and ride back to town, I’ll take care of this plate. The longer you wait to leave, the poorer the quality of the negative. I’m not going to the studio until I see you ride off.

You sure are a cautious lady, Red grumbled.

Thank you. I consider that a compliment.

Red jammed his foot into the stirrup. I ain’t intendin’ it as no compliment.

They mounted their horses and trotted down the hill toward Chan’s Laundry and the saloons of Second Street. Halfway down, Sam Black stopped and looked back.

Keep riding, mister.

He did.

Oliole scooted up the hill to the studio and into the darkroom.

The red-shaded lantern cast a dim glow as she hurried to get the equipment in position. The hand-lettered sign on the wall flickered the words: And as we have borne the image of the earthy, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly.

Well, Lord, this is about as earthy as I can get—four bank robbers and their plunder.

She should get word to the marshal. She could put up her equipment and run down there before the men returned.

That is, after she developed the photographs.

She finished hanging the fifth photograph to dry when she heard voices in front of the house. She grabbed a towel to wipe her hands, shoved aside the black canvas tarp, and made her way into the parlor.

Sam Black sprawled on the steps of the front porch, his back to her, talking to someone in the yard. Her boots clanked on the bare wooden floor. After the stuffiness of the darkroom, the porch felt cool.

What are you doing here? she challenged.

Black twisted around. Jist waitin’ for my pictures. His smile not easy or peaceful, his right hand rested on the scuffed grip of his holstered Colt.

Everything all right, Miss Fontenot? a teenaged boy called from the yard.

Yes, thank you, Mr. Johnson. I’m developing pictures for this man. What brings you up the hill?

Mayor Mandara called a merchants’ meeting at The Marquesa Hotel to discuss the schoolhouse fund. He wanted me to let everyone know.

Tell the mayor I’ll be there.

Yes, ma’am. Will you be takin’ your supper there, too? The Marquesa says she’s settin’ out a fine spread. She especially wanted me to invite you.

"Yes, tell Isabel I’ll be there.